


In for a Pound

by Mystrade_Dispatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrade_Dispatch/pseuds/Mystrade_Dispatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The bloke in the leather jacket standing directly ahead of them in the queue was still half-turned in their direction, his face in profile. Mycroft could just glimpse a frown on the man’s face and noticed a vein just below his temple was twitching rapidly. Mycroft was mystified as to why this person seemed so preoccupied by them. He’d kept up a surreptitious surveillance ever since he’d become aware of his and Sherlock’s presence." </p><p>Mycroft gets a lot more than he bargained for during an afternoon with Sherlock at a local amusement park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In for a Pound

**Author's Note:**

> This is not quite Teenlock, because Sherlock is 11. It's not Teenstrade, either, because Lestrade is in his 20s. So we'll go with ... Teencroft? AU. Based vaguely on a picture of Mycroft and Lestrade at a carnival that I saw somewhere.
> 
> This will range from PG-13 to about R.
> 
> Many thanks to my awesome beta, anglofile! Any goofups were made post-beta.

“But this is _stupid_ and I don’t want to! You’re an idiot. You’re fat _and_ you’re an idiot!”

Sherlock Holmes glared thunderously up at the figure looming over him and crossed his arms, and Mycroft Holmes felt the blood rushing to his cheeks as several people ahead of them in the queue turned to stare.

To his credit, Sherlock didn’t continue to perform for the gawkers. In fact, he seemed somewhat put-out to have attracted attention, and he scowled, going completely silent until the bystanders, sensing that the show was over, went back to their conversations or to thumbing their mobiles.

Well, _almost_ all the bystanders.

The bloke in the leather jacket standing directly ahead of them in the queue was still half-turned in their direction, his face in profile. Mycroft could just glimpse a frown on the man’s face and noticed a vein just below his temple twitching rapidly. Mycroft was mystified as to why this person seemed so preoccupied by them. He’d kept up a surreptitious surveillance ever since he’d become aware of his and Sherlock’s presence.

Mycroft might have assumed the bloke just wanted to be friendly. After all, he had turned upon their arrival, smiled and nodded and made vague noises about it being a nice day for an outing like this, and seemed eager to make the sort of useless small talk that _normal people_ made when stuck in something like a long queue. But then he’d quickly been engaged in conversation by a blonde woman about his age who was standing in front of him. So that should have been that, as far as his interest in what was going on behind him was concerned.

But an odd thing had happened: Leather Jacket had started chatting with the woman, but he’d angled his body into that somewhat awkward position – feet pointing outward and shoulders turned away from his new friend. Mycroft could tell by his stance and the angle of his head that he was straining to keep watch on what was appearing in his periphery. The man was doing an admirable job of not being very obvious about it, but that twitching vein gave away the game.

And thus, for some reason, even though he’d found pleasant – and very interested, from the looks of it – company, Leather Jacket was still surreptitiously watching them.

 _No_. Mycroft corrected himself. Not _them._ _Him._ The man was watching _him_.

Mycroft could tell that Leather Jacket’s gaze had not dropped, not even when Sherlock had his fit of pique. Whereas the younger boy had been the center of attention for all those in vicinity, Mycroft knew _he_ had been the focal point of the bloke standing directly in front of them.

It was … _strange._

In the few seconds in which the man had directly addressed them, Mycroft was able to surmise Leather Jacket was a handful of years older than he was, did manual labor, had never attended university, was from somewhere in southern England, supported Arsenal, was homesick, and had a flatmate who kept opposite hours and was being inconsiderate in the matter of sharing the bill for groceries.

But what he could _not_ work out was why this man seemed to find _him_ so interesting.  

Mycroft knew it wasn't a defensive action. He wasn't, for instance, concerned that Mycroft might be a pickpocket, or was carrying a gun, or had a communicable disease and was sneezing without covering his mouth, or was  _off_ in some indefinable way.

And yet ... Leather Jacket was dividing his attention between the pretty blonde and _him._ Moreover, Mycroft could tell that  _he_ was receiving the lion's share.

_Strange._

Mycroft took a deep breath and nudged Sherlock forward as the queue moved and they got ever closer to boarding _The Flying Fawkes_ , the signature attraction at **Ride, Brittania!** – a rather ambitious bit of business in Chessington billed as “the thinking-person’s amusement park.”

He had to admit that from what he’d seen so far, the description was fairly accurate. From the interactive reenactments of the Battle of Bosworth Field to the puppet show that demonstrated Parliamentary procedure, the offerings were much more intellectually stimulating than the usual thrill park fare. Mycroft had thought it would be a perfect way to spend an afternoon with his wayward baby brother, who despite his other shortcomings, seemed to share his tastes for the non-banal and unconventional.

To that end, Sherlock _had_ seemed to be having a good time at the outset, but he’d become restless when they’d joined the queue for the Fawkes ride, which promised an “almost too-close-for-comfort voyage into the heart of the Gunpowder Plot.” It was considered to be the most thrilling ride in the park, and had the longest wait time, as a result.

Sherlock had made noises about wanting to leave after about a five-minute wait. Incidentally, his whinging had gone up a few notches almost immediately after he received a mysterious text on his mobile.

Well, it wasn’t so very mysterious to Mycroft, actually. There was only one person who could text Sherlock and so drastically alter his mood.

Mycroft reckoned that he should have known that there was something afoot the moment Sherlock had stopped resisting his efforts to have a “brothers’ outing” and had even suggested a place and a date. At the time, he’d chosen to believe that Sherlock had capitulated out of a real desire to spend an afternoon with him, and not because more … interesting company was in the offing.

He squelched a sigh. There really was no excuse. He really _should_ have known better.

“We’ll meet up with John and his sister after this ride,” said Mycroft, craning his neck to see how close they were to the boarding area. “We can all have lunch together, if it’s all right with John’s aunt.”

A pouting Sherlock was tapping away on his mobile, ostentatiously ignoring him. The queue inched forward and with a sigh, Mycroft put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“We’re nearly there, Sherlock.” Mycroft tried to infuse his voice with enthusiasm. “It will be just as fun a ride as the _Roundheads Rebellion_ – probably even more so. This one will be in almost total darkness –”

“– We are _not_ ‘nearly there,’” snapped Sherlock, affecting a clipped, high-pitched tone that Mycroft assumed was supposed to mimic his own. “It’s going to take _forever_ , and it’s stupid. I’ve just told John how lucky he is that he doesn’t have a stupid, fat, older brother who makes _his_ life miserable.”

At that, Leather Jacket turned his head a bit more. Mycroft could see the expression he’d worn while talking to the woman – slightly vacant, with a glaze of polite attentiveness on top – shift into something more substantial and much less congenial.

The man glanced over his shoulder, aiming a dark glare in Sherlock’s direction. His lips gouged at each other, as if he were fighting to hold back a sneeze or a cough. Mycroft understood, however, that what the man was _really_ fighting was the urge to say something to his diminutive neighbor.

Sherlock’s rudeness often brought out clucks of disapproval – or worse – from passersby, but the majority of those people were their parents’ age or much older. It was uncomfortable, but Mycroft never felt it his place to chastise these well-meaning strangers beyond pulling Sherlock away before he could start deducing them, and possibly make things worse.

But Leather Jacket was his own age – no more than a year or two older in any case – and he would not be able to just stand there if the man said something off-colour to Sherlock, or worse, openly insulted him.

Mycroft moved subtly forward, his left leg separating Leather Jacket from the slight form of his little brother. He saw the smooth line of the man’s throat flex, as if he were swallowing down the words that he wished to say. With a quick glance at Mycroft, the man turned away without a word.

Mycroft breathed out, feeling no small amount of relief that things had not reached a crisis point. There were times he was not so lucky, where Sherlock was concerned.

He looked thoughtfully at Leather Jacket as he resumed his discourse with the blonde, bending close to her and laughing as she showed him something on her mobile. He was, Mycroft could tell, an easygoing sort, but he could discern tenseness in his shoulders and his neck seemed stiffer than it had been. It had cost him something to retreat the way he had.

… _Good, solid sense. Can read people and situations quite well and quite quickly … not afraid of confrontation but doesn’t chase after it …_

He waved those thoughts away and looked down at Sherlock, intending to take up the thread of … well … he supposed it could be called a “conversation,” but he stopped short when he glimpsed Sherlock studying Leather Jacket intently, his expression beginning to change.

He knew that look: the little twist of the lips, his eyes narrowing until they were almost just pinpricks of blue in the pale face.

With growing dismay, Mycroft confirmed what Sherlock was doing. He was silently and swiftly assessing the man. Studying him. Deducing him.

When Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a small, tight half-grin, Mycroft was conscious that he was holding his breath again.

_Maybe … maybe he won’t –_

“It’s not _my_ fault you don’t have any friends,” said Sherlock just loud enough to be overheard by those in the immediate vicinity. “You don’t even care about this ride. You just don’t want to stand here alone like the _other people_ who don’t have friends to come with them and stand around talking to _other_ stupid people they don’t even know –”

Mycroft saw the man’s feet move before the rest of him did. It was a little thing, but by the time he’d realized Leather Jacket was turning his body completely their way, he’d just barely had time to put an arm across his little brother’s chest, creating something of a barrier between Sherlock and the stranger.

Either ignoring or unaware of the import of Mycroft’s gesture, the man squatted until he was at eye level with his young neighbor. Mycroft saw Sherlock’s cheeks go unusually red as the much older man stared him down.

“Pretty sure you weren’t calling him _stupid_ or _fat_ when he plopped down the 25 quid it took to buy you a ticket into this place, yeah? So belt up and show a bit of gratitude.”

Leather Jacket didn’t speak much above a murmur, and his expression was neutral. He could’ve been asking for the time or having a chat about anything at all. Only the slightest edge in his voice belied his anger, but the tone brooked no argument. The woman who’d been chatting him up seemed confused and a bit put out at the abrupt pause in their conversation, but Mycroft was sure that was nothing compared to Sherlock’s expression – or his own, come to that.

Leather Jacket glanced up and Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat. No wonder the blonde had been so eager to maintain a conversation. The man was _beautiful_. He had tanned skin, brown hair, and dark, flashing eyes set in a face that had an almost girlish prettiness to it. People had been nice to that face – _very_ nice, and very often. He was on the taller side, but still a few inches shorter than Mycroft himself, and had solid shoulders, a long torso, magnificent thighs …

 … _Footballer. More than a casual interest. Still plays. Quite good …_

Mycroft forced his mind to turn back to present matters. Sherlock was gawking at Leather Jacket, blue eyes wide with shock and his mouth open. For almost the first time since they’d entered the park, Sherlock sought his brother’s hand for reassurance.

“— I _said_ thank you,” said Sherlock, moving a bit behind Mycroft to put even more space between him and the glowering young man. “I said it a lot of times!”

He glanced up at his older brother with a pleading expression, as if prodding Mycroft to defend him against this stranger's accusations.

It was Mycroft’s turn to look stunned at how contrite his younger brother sounded. It was almost as if the boy he’d known for 11 years had been spirited away, leaving this bashful, blushing youth in his place.

He managed to look away from Sherlock’s stunned face and into the eyes of the stranger, who was still crouched on his haunches, giving Mycroft an up-from-under look that emphasized his long lashes.

“Yes. You did, Sherlock. Several times.” Mycroft barely recognized the flat tone of voice and he saw Sherlock look up at him again, clearly puzzled.

But Leather Jacket nodded as if that answer satisfied him, and he got to his full height again in an almost unnaturally graceful motion.

_… Excellent swimmer, but he’s not made his living at it. Grew up near water, swimming almost since birth. Accent confirms he’s from the South-West. Seaside town …_

“Well that’s a good job then,” the other man said, still addressing Sherlock. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to have a brother to take them to a place like this. And he’s right, you know. There’re 30 to a ride, so next round’ll be our go. Be patient.”

He caught Mycroft’s eye and nodded before turning back to the blonde woman, who quickly bled the annoyance from her expression and greeted him with a large smile. If she’d heard the part of Sherlock’s deduction that had referred indirectly to her, she didn’t let on, but Mycroft saw her give his little brother a sharp glance before she rolled her eyes and put him entirely out of her mind.

Mycroft eyed the back of the man’s strong, tan neck. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the man’s posture had changed almost imperceptibly. He was … yes. He was standing _closer_ now. Just a bit, but still. Sherlock had only been half in the man’s shadow, and now he was covered by, roughly, 5/8ths of it.

Mycroft wondered if he should be afraid, or at least concerned. Leather Jacket seemed clean-cut enough, but child predators didn’t exactly walk around with stamps on their foreheads. Could the man be eyeing up Sherlock for something unspeakable? Was that whole back-and-forth a way for Leather Jacket to gauge how easy it would be to get rid of the boy's meddlesome companion if it came to that? Mycroft knew that he was no lightweight, but he wasn’t sure what an 18-year-old with a modest knowledge of boxing and some forms of martial arts could do against a well-conditioned man in his 20s who made his living with his hands and could probably break him in two without difficulty.

Still, Leather Jacket bore none of the usual hallmarks of a predator. Such a depraved nature would be nearly impossible to hide. Even Sherlock would have picked up on a dark streak of that magnitude. He had been wary of the man, but not because he thought he would hurt him, but because Sherlock seemed aware that it would be a bad idea to cross this person. Something about his manner blended a casually authoritarian air with an actual interest in people – and children especially. But it was not a sinister interest, Mycroft was almost sure of it.

… _Camp counselor? No. Troop leader? No. Teacher? Hmm … not quite. Coach. Youth coach for sport. Yes! Athletic build, good swimmer, interest in football. It all fits. But that’s not what he does for a living. The coaching is a hobby …_

Mycroft was brought out of his musings when the small hand in his tightened almost painfully, and he heard Sherlock’s sudden sharp intake of breath.  He looked down to see his younger brother staring out toward the greater area of the amusement park and frantically waving his free hand as if hoping to be seen from outer space.

“Over here! John! We’re over here!”

The obvious delight and relief in Sherlock’s voice – a stark contrast to how he’d looked and sounded moments earlier – gave Mycroft a start. After a few moments in which he could distinguish nothing and no one from the mass that thronged the general vicinity, Mycroft finally saw a short, sturdy blond teen heading toward them, looking equally bemused and bewildered as he carefully threaded through the crowd.

Strangely, Mycroft found himself relaxing, too. Perhaps John Watson had some sort of strange intuition and had been able to discern that his presence at that precise moment would be welcome. At the very least, it would calm Sherlock and put him in a more pleasant mood.

John was Sherlock’s closest – and, so far, only – friend, and something of a steadying influence. Two years older than Sherlock, he was a credible student, a dependable – if not very imaginative – and studious boy, polite and calm. For all that, he was _not_ a pushover, and he often checked Sherlock when he got too out of pocket in a way that very few others were able to do successfully.

With that thought, Mycroft cast a quick glance at Leather Jacket. He was nodding at something the woman was saying and gesturing expansively. It was likely that the two of them would get off together. Maybe he’d had it wrong and Leather Jacket _was_ keen. After all, he _was_ still talking to her, and anyway the girl and her boyfriend were obviously “on a break.”

Mycroft peered more closely at the blonde. Well, _she_ was on a break, anyway – the boyfriend didn’t know it yet. Mycroft reckoned he’d figure it out, eventually.

Breathing a bit heavily from what had to have been a quick walk from the other side of the park, John nodded at them from the other side of the cordon that kept the queue from spilling out into the walkways.

“Hey, Sherlock. Hi, Mycroft. Still waiting? We thought you might be out already.”

“I _told_ you we were still waiting!” Sherlock leaned over the rope. “I texted you _three times_!”

“Oh. Harry was using my phone. She forgot hers.” John shrugged. “She must have accidentally erased the texts you sent while she was texting Clara on a place to meet.”

“ _She’s_ here, too? Brilliant.” Sherlock glowered. “I hope you took back your mobile and left _them_ with your aunt.”

“I didn’t _leave_ them anywhere,” said John. “They went off to the broadsword arena to get lessons. Me and Aunt Martha are about to go to the ‘King’s Evil’ show.”

“Isn’t that the where they discuss which members of royalty who might have committed murder or enticed others to do so in their name?” asked Mycroft. “I’d thought I heard they’d closed that exhibit in favor of _Awesome Armadas_.”

“That opens up next week. This is the last show.” John looked at Sherlock. “We had an extra ticket because Harry wasn’t keen, so I wanted to see if you were interested. But it starts in ten minutes, and if you’re still waiting for this, then …”

“I wanted to see that!” Sherlock sounded anguished and looked up at Mycroft with wide, pleading eyes. “Mycroft, _please_ can I go? They ask for volunteers from the audience to try to figure out how the murders were committed. I almost have the one for the Princes in the Tower figured out!”

Mycroft grimaced, but he felt his resolve starting to weaken.

“Sherlock, we’re almost to the front …”

“But the show starts _soon_.” Sherlock’s eyes glimmered. “I don’t _want_ to go on this stupid ride! It’s …”

His eyes darted over to where Leather Jacket stood, and he bit his lip, appearing to reconsider his words.

“… I’d rather see the murderers. Who cares about Guy Fawkes? His plan didn’t even work, so the ride can’t be _that_ great.”

“Oi, steady on, Sherlock. This is a great ride,” said John, glancing uneasily at Mycroft. “Harry and I were on it earlier when the queue wasn’t so long. It’s brilliant, especially at the end. You go through a bonfire, and you really smell smoke and feel the heat on your face. Harry said my hair smelled burnt afterward.” The blond boy gave a bemused smile. “I actually wanted to come back for another go.”

Sherlock still looked less than convinced, and he looked up at his brother, doubling down on his pleading expression.

“Can’t we come back later? _This_ will still be here, but this is the _last_ ‘King’s Evil’ show! _Myyyyycrooofffft_ ….”

Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. And Mummy wondered why he insisted that if she were counting on grandchildren, she’d have to look to Sherlock to fulfill that wish?

“ _Fine_. Go.” His voice was weary. “But we are having lunch right afterward, no excuses. Don’t plague John’s aunt, and be sure to …”

When he opened his eyes, he saw that Sherlock had already ducked under the ropes and was almost skipping as he and John, laughing together, merged into the thick of the crowd. Mycroft was able to see the two boys clearly until they made the turn that would take them to the theater in the Richard III Pavilion, at which point they disappeared from view.

A pointed cough aimed at his head made Mycroft flinch a bit. After a few seconds, the cough came again, accompanied by vigorously obnoxious throat clearing.

Mycroft knew that the middle-aged gentleman standing with his wife behind him in the queue was attempting – in a manner he thought discreet, no doubt – to bring to his attention the fact that there was space enough now to move up and put some distance between them.

He was tempted to turn round and inform the man, in an _equally discreet_ fashion, that his hair transplant had been done by a hack, as had his eye lift. And given that he was certainly going to be jailed when his embezzling was discovered - which it would be, and very soon, - was it _really_ an intelligent move to have spent part of his ill-gotten gains on having something that looked like Weetabix shreds stapled to his scalp rather than on a one-way ticket to Turks & Caicos?

But Mycroft kept quiet, shuffling a few steps forward, head down. His gaze fell on the cordon, and he contemplated ducking under the rope himself and out of the queue. _The Flying Fawkes_ held little appeal to him now that Sherlock was gone – especially since he was a “single” now. Signs posted along the queue stated in dark, block letters that all “single” riders would be paired, as it was a popular ride and the compartments optimized for two riders.

Mycroft didn’t relish plumping down with a stranger, though he was aware that he really did want to experience this allegedly “mind-blowing” attraction. He was well aware that if Sherlock did return to _The Flying Fawkes_ , it would be with John in tow, and he’d want to ride it with his friend, not his older brother. He only hoped that he wouldn’t have to wait another cycle to be paired; Mycroft didn’t want to be one of those melancholy sots who were pulled to the side to wait for another single come along, and so stood around trying not to look as conspicuous and miserable as they felt. He was determined that if it seemed that he’d not be paired up on this go, he’d exit the line and find something to else to do until the show was –

“Does he always act like that?”

Somewhat startled, Mycroft lifted his head and found himself looking into Leather Jacket’s dark eyes. He’d abandoned his awkward stance and was now turned three-quarters toward him, facing him straight on. Mycroft could see the blonde woman over the man’s shoulder. She was talking on her mobile now, face dark and tight. It looked as if the boyfriend was checking in, and she was less than pleased.

Mycroft stared at the other man. He didn’t seem especially fussed that he’d lost the woman’s attention. In fact, he almost seemed a little relieved.

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft’s voice was cautious, but even. “Does _who_ always act like _what_?”

“Your brother.” Something sparked in the man’s dark eyes. “Does he always act like a spoilt little shit?”

The couple behind Mycroft in the queue tittered quietly into their raspberry lemonades, and Mycroft felt his forehead grow hot.

“He’s eleven.” Mycroft’s voice was acidly defensive. Sherlock could be a little shit, indeed, but he was _his_ little shit, and he resented this beautiful stranger’s implication.

“So is that a yes?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think that’s any of your concern. You don’t _know_ him.”

“Oi, I was sticking up for you!" Leather Jacket’s face went red.  "He was calling you names and –”

“You don’t know _me,_ either.” Mycroft glared at him. “And I don’t remember asking for _your_ help.”

Behind Leather Jacket, the blonde had ended her call and was contemplating how to get his attention again without being overly obvious about it. Mycroft could tell she was having a hard time coming up with ideas.

“Oh, so you were just fine with him calling you fat and stupid?” The man's voice just low enough for those in the immediate vicinity not to overhear, though the tension underlying the words was palpable. “And with him insulting people _he_ didn’t know, since you’re so concerned about that?”

Mycroft went silent, suddenly noticing the half-healed piercing in the man’s left ear and the small cuts on his chin.

… _Recently left a position where he could express himself as he chose, and now has a much more conservative office job … no, not quite an office job. Something where he must present a more professional appearance. Still getting used of shaving on a daily basis. Usually wears the earring on his off days but forgot it today …_

He poked his tongue into his cheek. So he’d been correct that Leather Jacket had picked up on the fact that he had been Sherlock’s primary target in that obscure rant. Mycroft knew it wouldn’t do to obfuscate or underestimate this man – he _truly_ was more than just a pretty face.

“If you had complained – to _me_ – I would have made him apologise,” said Mycroft. “You needn’t have _loomed_ over him. I would have taken care of it.”

“Right, because you’ve been doing such a _corking_ job of having him keep his gob shut this whole time, yeah?”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open wide. He could feel his face growing warm all over. He saw something surface in the other man’s dark eyes, subsuming the deep grimace that was already beginning to lessen in intensity. Meanwhile, the blonde was starting to realize that subtlety was not going to do much for her, and she began humming loud enough to be heard over the ambient sounds of passersby and other conversations in the queue. Mycroft cocked his head toward the woman. It sounded like  _Personal Jesus_ , but he couldn’t really be sure.

… _Angry … but not at me. He’s still angry at Sherlock … upset at what Sherlock said to me but not overly fussed about what Sherlock implied about him … thinks I’m wrong to defend him … feels I should stick up for myself …_

Mycroft glowered at his neighbor. The _last_ thing he needed was the well-intentioned pity of this gorgeous creature who could – and likely did – have his pick of women _and_ men. He was clearly at the park alone only because he was attempting to give socializing a go after having been dumped by the person who’d given him the jacket he now wore.

… _Ex-lover is a female … slightly older … Met at work? …_ _At the job he had to leave … She was shagging another coworker ... The jacket was given out of a guilty conscience, but he didn't know - oh. He_ still _doesn't know. Good, because it looks amazing on him and he'd surely burn it if he knew …_

Leather Jacket straightened his collar and licked his bottom lip most distractingly.

“Listen, I wasn’t trying to, y’know, undermine your authority or anything,” he said, lifting his shoulders in an almost conciliatory gesture. “I thought … I just wanted to … I dunno, _help_ , I guess.”

Mycroft bit back the natural insult that sprang to mind and affected a pose of casual disinterest. He deliberately settled his gaze over the man’s shoulder. The blonde had her arms crossed and was scowling at Leather Jacket’s back. Being ignored was an unusual thing for her. It was easy to deduce that she didn’t much like it.

A stab of sudden anger knotted Mycroft’s gut. God, what had he been _thinking_? It was always the same whenever he tried to step outside his comfort zone and mix with _normal people_. He could see in his mind’s eye this beautiful man and that attractive, but vapid woman, walking off hand-in-hand later, laughing over shared memories of the tubby, ginger loser who’d been behind them in _The_ _Flying Fawkes_ queue and had been read off by a child who barely came up to his belt buckle.

“Thank you for your concern,” Mycroft said stiffly. “But I think _someone_ is trying to get your attention. She’s rung off with her boyfriend finally.”

Mycroft’s lips trembled with the effort of tamping down a smirk. The unfiltered shock on the other man’s face would have been quite funny under a different set of circumstances.

Leather Jacket just looked at him. “What?”

Mycroft leaned toward him, close enough to discern that the mark on the side of his neck was a birthmark and not a souvenir of a heavy snogging session, close enough to tell that he was quite good at ironing and took great care over his clothes, close enough to smell his skin …

… _Motor oil. Petrol … not regular … motorcycle petrol … bar soap … suffers allergies … cologne is a sandalwood chypre … a birthday gift … no, Christmas … sister … younger sister … cheap, but it smells nice on him …_

He gave himself a mental shake to force himself out of the headspace he was drifting dangerously toward. This wasn’t a time to let hormones take over.

“A word of advice.”  Mycroft kept his voice low. “If you fancy getting off with her, suggest going to your flat. Her boyfriend suspects something and he’ll be waiting at hers. I think you could probably take him in a fight, if it came to that, but you never know.”

Leather Jacket’s eyes darted to the side, but he didn’t move his head.

“I wasn’t …” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t –”

“– live alone. Yes, that’s obvious.” Mycroft allowed himself a patronizing smile. “But I’m sure you could persuade your flatmate to give you a bit of privacy for an hour or so. He owes you a favor or two, doesn’t he? Oh, and I’d start putting my name on the food from now on. Because it’s just the two of you, doing so _will_ make you see like a cheap, antisocial knobhead, but on the other hand, it might make your flatmate think twice about raiding the refrigerator and helping himself to things he didn’t buy without asking you first and without offering to kick in when you run low.”

The man’s face drained of colour, and Mycroft stared back impassively. _Now_ , surely, the man would leave him alone. They _always_ left him alone after deductions. No matter how much he explained that it was no magic trick, no sorcery, no smoke-and-mirrors parlour game, he was always met with the same roster of reactions: disbelief, fear, annoyance, anger, embarrassment. 

It was hard to tell what expression was trying to work its way on Leather Jacket’s face, because he was already backing away from him.

Slowly, Leather Jacket turned his head toward the blonde woman. Her irritated expression instantly shifted to one of delight, but after a few seconds degenerated into one of baffled trepidation as she asked if he were all right.

Mycroft didn’t hear the reply, but he did see Leather Jacket give him a quick look over his shoulder before turning his entire body so that he was facing the front straight on. It was the first time he’d had his back completely to him since Mycroft had been in the queue, and it made him feel strangely empty.

 _What did you think would happen? You played the part of the circus freak and he’s reacted accordingl_ y. _What do you care, anyway? It isn’t as if you’ll ever see him again once you get out of here. Why on earth did I think it was a good idea, coming here?_   _Sherlock is actually right ... I_ am  _an idiot_ …

Mycroft looked up at the sound of screeching wheels, and the solid clink and slow whine of a metal brake biting into a metal track. An odor that _did_ smell like burning thatch – and hair – wafted over those waiting in the queue, and a gaggle of excited voices could be heard as the ride came to a complete stop.

 _The Flying Fawkes_ had returned, the cars of the ride pulling neatly up to the loading area.

There was a ripple of restlessness throughout the queue. Everyone was aware that they would soon be getting on the ride. Mycroft glanced over his shoulder and watched as the usher at the far end began unhooking the red cordon to allow those who’d just been on the ride to exit. He took a breath when he sensed movement, turning round in time to see the queue moving forward.

Mycroft leaned sideways and tilted his head in an attempt to see if there was a singleton left over from the last pack of riders who might already be waiting near the loading area to be paired up. His height gave him an advantage there, and sure enough he saw a short, balding man standing off to the side, attempting to look inconspicuous as he studied the safety instructions posted on a wall adjacent to the loading area.

… _Here for a blind date … has been stood up … Secretly pleased, as he was lying about his age, his height and his sexual proclivities_.

If he counted correctly, he and Mr. Stood Up would be seatmates, as all those in front of him were all coupled up. Though, technically, Leather Jacket and his blonde admirer were singletons, as well, but Mycroft was certain they’d come to some sort of … understanding.

He wasn’t sure why he was thinking about this, either way. In fact, Leather Jacket probably _should_ have thanked him. His deductions just might have saved him from getting a punch in the jaw from the woman’s unhappy boyfriend. If that wasn’t paying him back for his “friendly” intervention earlier, Mycroft wasn’t sure what would be.

Mycroft gnawed his lower lip as the queue began to move faster. Tickets were taken or access bracelets scanned, and riders jumped into the cars as if afraid they’d be shut out if they didn’t hurry. Mycroft saw Leather Jacket turn to the side, as if looking out at the crowd spread out over the park, but the tell-tale vein was twitching again.

He was watching him. Again.

The ride operator was a tall woman in her mid-40s wearing a long cloak and a Guy Fawkes mask pushed up over her dark hair. She seemed bored as she perfunctorily checked tickets and bracelets, after which she pulled a lever that advanced the cars and allow a new pair to slide in.

Mycroft saw the lone man waiting for a partner push his hands further into his pockets and begin to whistle tunelessly, as if he were reminding the operator that he still existed … and was _still_ waiting. The woman ignored him, jerking her head toward an empty car as each pair stepped up to be counted.

“Ticket?” The woman asked the blonde when it was her turn.

The blonde woman, smiling, held out a blue ticket and was duly checked off. The woman nodded, and looked at Leather Jacket expectantly. When he didn’t come forward to show _his_ ticket, the operator frowned a little. She waited a second more, and when the man still didn’t step forward, she looked more closely at the blonde.

“You a single, love?”

Mycroft saw Mr. Stood Up whirl around, his eyes widening in hope. The ride operator continued to ignore him, giving the young woman her full attention.

"Well ..." 

The blonde gave Leather Jacket a flirtatious smile over her shoulder, and Mycroft saw her face almost immediately fall in on itself. Leather Jacket’s mouth jerked into a smile – Mycroft could tell by the sudden stretching of his cheeks – but he couldn’t discern anything else.

But whatever else he was doing with his face, the blonde hadn’t been expecting it, and the smile seemed to be making it worse.

“I …” The blonde turned helplessly toward the ride operator. “I mean …”

“Hon, if you’re a single, then you’ll be riding with that gentleman there.” The ride operator waved vaguely in Mr. Stood Up’s direction. The little man was almost vibrating with excitement, but not because of the attractiveness of his prospective ride partner, but that he would at last be able to stop pretending to be interested in how  _Safety was paramount at Ride, Brittania!_  

The blonde gave one more despairing look at Leather Jacket. Mycroft saw him roll his shoulders and nod. It looked as if he were still smiling ... or whatever it was he was doing with his lips. Maybe it couldn't be properly termed a smile, after all..

“Hope you enjoy the ride. Was nice chatting with you.”

The blonde’s face went slack. The operator spoke a bit sharply to her now – either get in the car with Mr. Stood Up or stand aside – she was holding up the whole ride. The whole queue seemed to go quiet as the blonde stood trying to make up her mind. She gave it one last go with Leather Jacket, and Mycroft could see her chin wobble. She looked completely gobsmacked. Whatever she had expected of him, it hadn't been _this_. He was blanking her to her face, and Mycroft could see her going over their entire interaction to see where she'd gone wrong.

Mycroft was doing the same, and coming up oddly empty. By all accounts, Leather Jacket  _should_ have been chuffed at this opportunity. What had she missed? What had  _he_ missed?

The ride operator spoke again, and it seemed for a moment the blonde woman was going to duck under the velvet ropes and leave _The Flying Fawkes_ to the rabble. But after another beat, she suddenly shook her head and gave Leather Jacket a thoroughly disgusted sneer before storming over to the empty car. Mr. Jilted clambered in beside her, buckling his seatbelt and looking as if the weight of the world was off his shoulders. The blonde didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

The ride operator muttered something rude under her breath when they were safely ensconced in their compartment, jerking the lever a bit harder than was necessary to advance the next empty car.

Now at the front, Mycroft could take his measure of the ride. It traveled on a single, electric track, and seemed wider than it was long. The cars were self-contained, and designed as old, oversized hollowed-out casks of gunpowder, connected to each other by strong cables painted to resemble fuses.

Cute. Cozy.

 _Quite_ cozy, much like the capsules on the London Eye but on a much smaller scale. Once the glass doors slid in place, the pair inside was closed off from the outside world. Since much of the ride took place in darkness, Mycroft could understand why there were so many couples queued up.

But Mycroft blinked, quickly losing interest in the design of the ride. Leather Jacket _hadn’t_ gotten on the ride with the blonde woman, and there was no one ahead of him in the queue.

That meant _Leather Jacket_ was a singleton now. And _that_ meant …

Mycroft gulped slightly as the man stepped up to show his ticket. He didn’t miss the quick, sidelong glance Leather Jacket threw him, or the ominous grin that accompanied it when, a second later, the ride operator was waving them toward their own empty car.

__

_Your own personal Jesus_   
_Someone to hear your prayers_   
_Someone who cares_   
_Your own personal Jesus_   
_Someone to hear your prayers_   
_Someone who's there_   
  
_Feeling unknown_   
_And you're all alone_   
_Flesh and bone_   
_By the telephone_   
_Lift up the receiver_   
_I'll make you a believer_

\- "Personal Jesus," Depeche Mode (Violator)


End file.
